Days of Winter (46 page)

It was one o’clock in the morning when they arrived home, but Jeanette couldn’t wait and went at once to Henri, picked him up and held him close to her. Half asleep, he yawned and stretched, then opened his eyes and smiled with the delightful grin that she’d especially missed, and she told him that he was “just like your father, irresistible when you smile …” and the six-month-old infant smiled back even more.

The next morning, although she’d had very little sleep, she arose earlier than usual, feeling exhilarated at the prospect of seeing Henri. She relieved Madeleine of her duties and took over bathing Henri, who splashed about excitedly, kicking and wading in the tub at the same time that Jeanette held him encircled and guided him. When he was dried and powdered she brushed his hair with a soft baby brush, parting it on one side. He looked and smelled delicious as she dressed him and took him down to breakfast with his papa, after which she would take him to see his cousins, and after that …

After that would be what she had been both looking forward to and dreading. Jean-Paul …

It was immediately clear that something was decidedly amiss. There was none of his usual open-armed welcome, which, in a sense, she was grateful for, but it made her uneasy, nonetheless. When she asked him if something was bothering him, he casually answered nothing at all, what could possibly be bothering him, now that she was here? He formally poured her a glass of champagne, assuring her it was “quite delicious, you know this vintage, it’s the one from the Dupré vineyards in Provence.”

The inference about Provence, where the liaison had begun, was too pointed. But now her own anger was building. “If you don’t mind, Jean-Paul, I would prefer we dispense with these games—”

“Games? I’m not aware of any games. I’m only aware of the beautiful wife of my brother who, if I may be so bold, seems to be taking her wifely duties just a touch too seriously—”

“What in the world are you talking about? What would you have me do, ignore my husband—”

“To hell with your husband. I can’t stand your devoted attention, your—”

“My God, Jean-Paul, this is really too much. Like it or not, Etienne
is
my husband, and you know when
you
first suggested this, yes, let’s not forget whose idea it was … that it would not be easy to—”

“I didn’t assume that you would … well”—and his voice was abruptly subdued—“become so fond of him that you—”

“Yes,” she said, her voice rising, “I am fond of him,
very
fond. …”

“Are you so certain you’re not in love? Going off on a second honeymoon, sending me a postcard of the Alps. My God, I could almost smell the edelweiss and hear the yodeling. …” His voice had risen again as his control slipped away.

“And what should I have said to my husband? ‘No, I’m so sorry, darling, I can’t get away for a holiday with you because I have a lover, a lover crazy with jealousy who happens also to be your brother’—Oh, my God, Jean-Paul, don’t you realize how torn I am between my feeling for you and my life with Etienne? I’m a wife to two men, leading a double life. …It’s not, I assure you, the simplest role in the world—”

“No, I suppose it isn’t, though it might be if you hadn’t allowed yourself to become so … attached to him, to my poor dear brother that everybody all his life has been so damn concerned about. …Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I’m excluded from everything about my own son … everything important I have to hear second or third hand … even when I want to hold him he reaches for Etienne …”

His upset only reinforced hers, and putting her hands over her ears she ran to the door, down the stairs and, tears streaming down her face and blinding her, rushed to her car. She sat inside with her head on the steering wheel, feeling wretched, for what seemed hours. When the tears, and the hurt, had subsided some, she was able to think more about what Jean-Paul had said, how it was true that he
had
been left out, living, really, on the periphery of her and Etienne’s life, not being able to share the life of his only child, a son, and how ungenerous she had been to remind him of the past, which really had little to do with the hurt of the present. And now her heart went out to him. She dried her tears, got out of the car and went back up the stairs. As she opened the door she saw Jean-Paul sitting with his head in his arms, the champagne bottle smashed against the fireplace, the wine staining the carpet. She went to him and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. … “Jean-Paul, I do understand … I know it is difficult for you.”

He held her close. There was no pretense. “I need you. Very much. When you’re not here I feel that my life stops. I can’t help it … I want you to belong to me, even though I know it’s not possible. …”

She ran her fingers through his hair and whispered, “But I do belong to you, you know that. Your son is my son. Whatever happens, wherever you are or I am, there is nothing and nobody that can change that. You must not forget that. Not ever …”

He sighed. “Yes, I know, but it doesn’t seem enough. Damn it, you’ve become an obsession—”

“Hush, I beg you. When I see you like this … hurting yourself … I can’t stand it—”

“All I know is that if I ever lost you my life would be over. I would have nothing—”

“But you’ll never lose me. …” And at the moment, she meant it.

Afterward they made love, almost as though it were to be for the last time.

M
AGDA WAS NOT A
woman to be easily discouraged, nor would she allow her feelings, wounded though they were after two rejections, to hinder her determination. Not after, to her astonishment, she had found her daughter again. She would continue to try to win at least her friendship, if not her love. That, she knew, would be asking too much. …She was willing to settle for less than love, for any token of acceptance.

She was planning a dinner and sent invitations to the Etienne Duprés, as well as Jean-Paul …He should be the agent to bring them together.

But Magda didn’t take into account that her grown daughter’s nature, not surprisingly, was as determined as her own. …

When Jeanette got the invitation, she angrily tore it up. A few days later while the family was having luncheon with
maman,
Jean-Paul said, “I talked to Countess Maximov yesterday. She told me that you and Etienne had been invited to her party too. …We can all go together—”

“We won’t be going,” said Jeanette, her lips tightly drawn.

“But I thought you’d be pleased to be included—”

“Why?”

“Her parties are famous.”

“I know … I’ve read about them often enough.” Jeanette was trying to keep her voice under control. “I declined the lady’s invitation, I wrote a note of regret.”

Jean-Paul was genuinely confused, even mystified. Was Jeanette jealous? The Countess was also on the best-dressed list, but that seemed rather petty, and Jeanette was not petty … and then he recalled how strangely she had acted at the opera. …Well, whatever, she was obviously annoyed and, frankly, he was not reluctant to provoke Madame some. … “Still … it seems a pity to deprive yourself, and Etienne, of such an occasion. I take it you’re not especially impressed with the Maximovs?”

“That’s ridiculous … I don’t even know them.”

“Then perhaps you should reconsider. …”

“I don’t
want
to reconsider—”

“May I ask why?”

Her look was decidedly one to kill. … “Because, Jean-Paul, we are already too busy. …Etienne and I discussed it. Besides, they are much too old for us, and I dislike accepting invitations which I don’t wish to reciprocate. …Now, if you will excuse me …” and she abruptly left for her room.

Jean-Paul was not the only one impressed by Jeanette’s reaction to Countess Maximov’s invitation, but when Etienne attempted to question her about it she made it as clear to him as she had to Jean-Paul that she really didn’t want to discuss it, that it was just another party and surely they had more interesting things to talk about. Whereupon he decided that the discretion of silence was the better part of curiosity.

A week later, Jeanette received another invitation, which she also tore up. Then, two weeks later, another. This was getting to be impossible. She made up her mind to make the
Countess
leave her alone once and for all.

She called for André and had him drive her to the Isle of Saint Louis.

Jeanette waited in the hall as the butler went to announce her to the Countess. When the two finally stood facing each other, Magda’s face was radiant At last, her daughter was here … with her. …

“I’m so … so very happy to see you.”

Jeanette’s face was a mask. She merely nodded.

“Shall we go into the salon?” Magda said, now uneasy as she noted Jeanette’s reaction. After they’d seated themselves, she said tentatively, “May I offer you a sherry or—”

“Nothing, thank you. This isn’t a social visit.”

Magda was on the verge of tears as she reached for a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. “Then may I ask why you have come?”

Jeanette took a deep breath, trying to control herself, feeling an internal shaking as she fought to push down her own natural hunger to reach out to this woman who was her mother at the same time that she despised her. … “I don’t know how to say this … I didn’t expect or imagine this meeting, but I suppose I knew that some day it would have to happen. …I don’t want to be unkind, but I’ve come here to tell you that … well, I suppose I came here to tell you that I hated you and never wanted to hear from you or speak to you, but that really isn’t the truth. …The truth is that I want to tell you something that can never have the same meaning to you that it should have … because we are no longer mother and daughter, but I will try to tell you anyway. Do you know what it’s like to be a child and feel that you don’t have a mother? Even though you know who that mother is? A child, for all they say about the wisdom of children,
doesn’t
understand. Well, now
I
have a child, and while I am less than a perfect mother—in fact in some ways I am too much my mother’s daughter—I know that at least I could never walk away from my child … he’s my life, he comes from me. …No, at least I could never walk away from him, not even for a man … another man. …I said I was no saint and I’m not … after all, I’m your daughter … but I could have a dozen lovers and nobody could come between me and my child. …You didn’t even keep your promise to write. I waited, day by day, just hoping, until finally I had to accept that you had forgotten I ever existed. …By the way, did you know that after you left my father deteriorated to the point where his mind was no longer right, that he was in a sanatorium? … And did you know that he died two years ago? That he committed suicide …?”

Magda had visibly flinched at that last, and then her face had gone slack. How to register the awful feeling of guilt, and of, yes, hate too? Because how do you love the instrument of your own condemnation, even if she is your own daughter? But that last passed quickly, and what was left was the guilt and the shock. Oh yes, she had heard from Camail—a rather brief and cool note—that Rubin had died, and she had thought of writing for details but decided it would be hypocritical, and besides, what could she really do about it? But
this …
taking his own life … God was indeed punishing her, and at the moment she was quite willing to believe she thoroughly deserved it, having forgotten long since her own reasoning at the time for leaving him, and their daughter. Now was not the time for self-justification. In fact, she almost welcomed the wave of guilt and remorse. And feeling this way, what could she say to her daughter, her beautiful, outraged, well-married daughter, about her love and gratitude that she had finally found her? Her daughter clearly thought her unworthy of life, let alone a daughter’s love, and she tended to agree. …

“So please, if you don’t mind … no more invitations,” Jeanette was saying. “I have long since told my husband and his family that I had no mother, that she died when I was five and that’s the way I feel. …If we should meet again, accidentally, please make it as painless as possible for both of us … we are after all both adults now and I want to tell you that”—she was getting breathless now—“saying all this gives me no pleasure, I don’t feel any sense of revenge … only, to tell you the truth, the loss of a mother I never had. …Well, I trust you and Uncle … your husband will continue to have a pleasant life. …” And then she had turned and run to the front door and was out before Magda could say a word.

Somehow—she barely remembered it later—Magda was able to climb the stairs to her room … and then she went completely to pieces, crying deep sobs that would not stop. Alexis, hearing her, came in and held her, like a broken child, in his arms. Barely coherent, she tried to tell him what had happened, what Jeanette had said about Rubin. “Oh, God, Alexis, I know what she meant … that I killed him … and in a way I did. …And it seems I killed my daughter too. …”

And try as he might to console her, to tell her that Jeanette was understandably an overemotional young lady who had got some of her facts out of perspective, she would not be consoled, and there seemed no relief from her torment …

Time and the seasons did pass, though, following the events of that terrible day. Christmas came, and many of the Duprés attended midnight mass at Nôtre Dame, after which they went home to enjoy the traditional supper, sleeping late on Christmas morning—at least as late as the children would allow them.

Then, astonishingly, blessedly, it was spring once again. The chestnut trees were green once more and the sidewalk cafés were filled with the lovers of Paris. …May, and Henri became one year old. He took his first toddling steps into the outstretched arms of his father. There was a party for him in the garden, and Henri sat in his high-chair, pounding on the attached tray with a spoon. The icing of the cake all over his face was wiped away by his doting grandmother, who held him, but he struggled and reached out for Etienne as Jeanette and Jean-Paul looked on. …

Etienne in fact now spent most of his time with Henri, taking him each afternoon after his nap to his studio, where he sketched and painted. He tried to paint Henri, but his son was a less than cooperative model, never still for a moment, getting into the paints, smearing his hands and face, which made Etienne give up in helpless laughter, and he would pick up the little boy and hold him above his head, which delighted Henri, who matched his father’s laughter, and then Etienne would give him a mock-frown and say “We will try again tomorrow.”